If That's What You Need
by Bohemian Storm
Summary: Tommy says something to Brick Top that can't be taken back and his beaten body is return to Turkish. *Slash*


**Disclaimer**:  I don't own them.  They belong to Guy Ritchie.  If I did own them there would have been a lot more of this in the movie.

**Notes**:  This was completely re-inspired by Taryn Wander'r's fantastic 'Snatch' fic "Diamond in the Rough".  I started this more than a year ago when I first saw the movie, but have definitely found new inspiration through that amazing fic.  This could take place in an alternate universe, I suppose.  It's meant to take place before the movie, but I'll say it's an AU fic to cover myself.  

**Warnings**:** This is also just senseless and somewhat fluffy slash.  If that's not your thing, be gone, as flames will be used to light the flamer's computer on fire.  The rating is for language, some violence (not too bad) and, of course, the slash.**

If That's What You Need

_By Bohemian Storm_

            I hate this bleeding place more now than ever before.  It stinks like pig shit, but I guess that smell comes with keeping pigs.  Brick Top is busy throwing some sort of feed into the bottom of the cage as Tommy blabbers on about the fight we're supposed to be organizing for next week.  

            I know what's coming before Brick Top even says it, but I can't stop Tommy until he's heard the threat.  He'd never stop talking if people didn't threaten him.

            "Shut 'er up before I do it for you, Turkish."

            Tommy stops talking pretty fast after that, but his eyes go to me, wide and incredulous like he thinks the gangster is joking.  Fucking prat knows better than that, or he should by now.

            Brick Top doesn't joke around about Tommy and me.  When he says he wants Tommy to shut up I'd better shut him up before Errol does something especially horrible to him.  I can't have that.  Tommy's a pain in the ass most of the time but I've forgotten what it's like not to have him around.    

            I elbow Tommy in the ribs and glare at him in that way that he knows I'm serious.  He thinks that while I'm around Brick Top can't do anything to him and that's a huge mistake.  I doesn't matter if I'm standing three feet away, if Brick Top wants Tommy dead then Tommy is gonna be dead.  There won't be anything I can do about it, that's for damn sure.

            We're standing with Brick Top above his pigs trying to discuss the details of a fight we've got coming up.  Brick Top wants Gorgeous George to go down in the third but Gorgeous is getting impatient.  Brick Top hasn't let him win a fight in a few months and Gorgeous is stupid enough to knock the other guy out in the second and screw us over for life.

            "Tommy," I say softly.  "Let me do this, okay?"

            Tommy nods, staring at the ground.

            "Better keep 'er in check, Turkish," Brick Top says, finally staring at the two of us from behind his thick glasses.  "A girl with a mouth on 'er like that one 'as could get the two of you into a hell of a lot of trouble."

            I nod.  What the hell am I supposed to say to that?  If I argue with him he'll feed me to the pigs and if I agree with him wholeheartedly Tommy will mope around in the caravan like I killed his puppy.  He'll probably pout once we get outside anyway, but I'm hoping to avoid seeing his pouting face every second for the next week and a half.

            "I want your boy to go down in the third," Brick Top says and I force myself back into the conversation.  "He's bigger than my fighter but we've already fixed it so that Dog is winning."

            Dog?  He named his fighter Dog?  Gorgeous George may be a far cry from actually being gorgeous but . . . Dog?  Who the fuck names their fighter Dog?

            "Right," I say.  "I'll tell Gorgeous that he's going down in the third round.  Simple."

            Brick Top pauses and looks at me.  "You sound nervous, Turkish.  You're not nervous, are you?"

            I shake my head and force a smile.  "Nah."

            "I don't scare you?"

            Oh, fuck.  How do I answer that?  If I say I'm not scared of him Brick Top will be convinced he's not scary enough and will probably kill both me and Tommy.  But, if I tell him I am scared of him he'll have me right where he wants me.  He'll know too much.

            I'm going to shrug.  That's what I've decided to do.  I'll just shrug and smile.

            "He's not scared of you, are you, Turkish?"  Tommy grins happily and glances between me and Brick Top.

            Well, it's been fun, but my life is over.  I'm being fed to the pigs.  But Tommy's going first.

            "I thought I told you shut up, sweet'eart," he says, taking a step toward Tommy.  "Didn't I tell you to shut that pretty little mouth of yours?  Are you 'ard of 'earing?  Do the pretty ones really 'ave no brains?" 

            Tommy swallows hard and glances at me, taking a step away from Brick Top.

            "Do you want me to lose my temper?" he asks, staring very seriously at Tommy.

            "No, sir," Tommy begins.

            "Do you want me to lose my temper?" Brick Top repeats, his voice rising.

            "Not at all-"

            "Do you want me to lose my _temper_?" 

            Tommy finally understands what Brick Top wants and he shakes his head, keeping quiet and staring at the floor.  Errol is watching with great interest from behind the dog cages.  I bet he'd like nothing more than to be called forward right now because that would mean he'd get to kick Tommy around for a bit before they feed him to the pigs.  I'll probably get to watch.

            He stares at Tommy for a moment longer and then looks over at me.

            "Get 'er outta my sight, Turkish.  And next time you come around here don't bring 'er with you.  She just gets you into trouble."

            I nod, then grab Tommy by the collar and drag him away from the pig's cage.  The further we are away from the pigs the better I'll feel.

            "I'm not scared of you either!" Tommy yells when we're just at the door.

            Errol comes charging forward and I know this is it.  We got lucky once; we're not going to get lucky a second time.

            "Brick Top wants to see him," Errol says, pulling Tommy away from me.  "You'll get him back in a few, Turkish."

            A few what?  Pieces?

            Tommy stares at me pleadingly, but there's nothing I can do.  I'll get him back, that's what Errol said, but if I try something now we'll both be dead for sure.

            "You'll be okay," I say, then turn and let Errol slam the door behind me.

            If he's gonna be okay I wonder why I feel so fucking guilty.

*

            The next few hours are more or less unbearable.  I'm alone in my flat, waiting for a call about Tommy, drinking and pacing.  I probably shouldn't be drinking as I'll have to go pick him up whenever Brick Top is done with him but I can't help it.  It calms me a little.  It isn't much but it's something.  If I didn't have seven beers in me I just might be tearing my hair out.  I can't believe I left him alone with Brick Top.  He's my friend and I said I'd keep him out of trouble.  

            I guess I failed on both counts.

            A feeble knock on the door startles me, but I turn quickly and go over to see who's there.  Errol stands on the threshold, holding Tommy up by his collar and smiling.

            "He won't be giving us anymore trouble again," he says, then dumps Tommy into my arms.  With another wicked smile at me as I struggle to hold Tommy without spilling my beer, Errol turns and leaves.  

            Prick.

            "Tommy?" I ask, dragging him into the flat and putting my beer down on the kitchen table.  "Tommy, are you alright?"

            His eyes crack open and he smiles softly.  "Fuck no, Turkish.  I think I'm broken."

            I have to smile at that.  He doesn't look too badly beaten up, just a few cuts and bruises, but Tommy always was a bit of a wimp.  He whimpers softly as I drag him over to the couch and put him down, but allows me to wrestle him out of his jacket and shoes.  His shirt is torn a little and I can see a burn on his collar bone.

            "Tommy," I begin, pulling the shirt collar down a little more and looking at the burn.  His skin is blistered and flaming red, but the colour isn't what causes me to put both hands over my face and rock back on my heels.

            "Take off your shirt," I demand.

            Tommy follows my instructions as though he's half asleep, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging out of it.  I don't want to see what I'm seeing but it's there and I can't pretend that he did it cooking dinner one night.  Small burns cover his upper chest, as though someone had heated the end of a stick and poked it into his skin.  The black eye that's forming was Errol's doing but the burns . . . those are Brick Top's way of warning us both.  If Tommy ever says anything again like what he said today then he's going to die and it won't be pretty.

            "Are there . . ." I trail off and gesture at the rest of his body.  "Are there any more?"

            Tommy shrugs, leaning to one side and slumping onto the couch.  I grab his arm to pull him back up and examine the rest of him and that's when I see the marks on the inside of his elbow.  Needle marks.  Tiny little holes that tell me exactly why Tommy is falling over and smiling at me when he's just been burned horribly.  They gave him drugs to keep him from screaming.

            "Oh, shit . . ." I mutter, staring at the marks.  This is going from bad to worse.  How do I know how much they gave him?  What if it was enough to kill him or just enough that he'll wake up screaming bloody murder in an hour?  Is it numbing the pain or just making him brain dead? 

            What the fuck do I know about drugs? 

            "Tommy," I say, grabbing him around the waist and pulling him off the couch.  "We have to get you to bed."

            "Don't live here," he mutters.

            "I know.  I have to get you to my bed."

            He smiles knowingly and nods, them slumps back against my shoulder.  He's small, but he's nearly unconscious now and that dead weight isn't exactly easy to drag across the floor of my flat and down the hall to my bedroom.  I eventually get him into the room and drop him on the bed, figuring that if he doesn't feel the burns he's not going to feel a few more bumps.  My arms ache, but I'm far from done.  

            As Tommy dozes fitfully on the bed, I gingerly undo his belt and pull off his trousers.  I hate to see what they might have done to him further down, but his legs and hips seem unmarred by the burns.  That's definitely a good sign.  

            I toss his trousers onto the floor and try to pull the blanket over his body, tucking him into my bed in just his boxer shorts.  He snuggles happily against the pillows and pulls the blanket up further, covering his once smooth shoulders from my shocked eyes.  They seem to be everywhere, blisters turning his skin red across his shoulders and down his back.  I only got a glimpse of it, but I saw enough.

            "Tommy," I say.  "I'm going to go get some cold water for your burns."

            He doesn't reply, but buries his face further into my pillows.

            I creep into the kitchen and try to find a bowl or something to put the water in.  I eventually just get a bucket and fill it with ice and water.  There's a towel in the bathroom and I pull it off the hook on my way back to the bedroom.  

            Tommy is still buried in blankets, but he's moaning now like the drugs are beginning to wear off. 

            I pull a chair up beside the bed and dip the towel into the cold water, smoothing it over the hideous burns on his back.  He cringes and tries to twist away from me, but eventually just falls back on the bed, exhausted.  

            "Turkish," he says in a small voice and I look up at his face.  It's twisted in pain, but his eyes are wide and pleading.  "What happened?"

            "Brick Top," I say, then continue pressing the cold cloth to his skin.

            "It hurts," he says.

            I nod.  "I know but I have to do something.  You don't want these to scar."

            He looks down at himself and bites back tears, turning his face into the pillow again.  "They'll scar no matter what."

            "Shh," I murmur and reach for the blanket, pulling it down to reveal his chest.  He tries to fight me again but I win again.  I always win with Tommy.

            "I thought I was going to die when you left me there," he says.

            "I thought you were going to die too."

            "You left me, Turkish," he says, practically quivering with fear.  "You really left me."

            "I wasn't given much of a choice, Tommy.  You have to learn to be quiet about Brick Top.  I don't reckon I can bring you around him anymore."

            He doesn't have an answer to this, but after a few minutes of silence he reaches up and grabs my wrist.  I'm startled, but I try to keep brushing the wet cloth over his burns even as he holds my hand.  His grip isn't tight but it's enough to make me uneasy.  What the hell does he think he's doing? 

            "I thought I'd never see you again," he confesses a moment later, shaking slightly.  "I thought that I'd die and I'd miss out on everything."

            "I . . . I didn't know what to think."

            He struggles to sit up and eventually succeeds, now staring me in the face.  "It scared me."

            "I can imagine."

            "No, you can't," he says, shaking his head and looking away.  "I need to be honest."

            "Like you're honest with Brick Top?" I ask, staring at him.

            Tommy looks up, slightly shocked by what I've said, but it doesn't stop him from leaning forward and pressing a kiss against my cheek.  If it were any other man I probably would have jerked away, thrown the cloth at him and started swearing.  But this isn't any other man, this is Tommy and more than half the time Tommy doesn't have a damn clue what he's doing.

            "Tommy," I say, but he cuts me off with his own mouth.

            I've known him for a long time and this is something I never thought would happen.  I never imagined having Tommy sitting in my bed, half naked, kissing me fiercely as though it was the only thing that kept him from dying right there in my bed.  And if I had thought about kissing Tommy – which I hadn't -  I'd never imagine him to be kissing me as roughly as he was this very moment.

            Everything happens so fast and yes, I know that's what people use as their excuse all the time, but in this case it's true.  Seconds later I find myself kneeling on the bed, one of my legs pulled up on Tommy's side, my hands are on either side of his face, coaxing him to slow down, to enjoy what we're doing.  

What _we're doing._

This isn't just Tommy and it isn't just me.  It's both of us, bodies sliding down beside one another and lips pressing into the other, tentatively, then fiercely once more.  There are teeth and lips and tongue and soon enough I can't determine whose body part is whose anymore.  I've never imagined in my entire life that this might be somewhere I would end up.  Never. 

So why am I enjoy it so much?  Why do I arch into him as his hand slides down my back and continue to relish in the feeling of his mouth?

Because I thought I had killed him.  I thought I had left him to die.  That's something that I need to repay in my own way and if this is what Tommy needs then this is what I'll do to make him feel like he can trust me again.

"Are you okay, Turkish?" he whispers against my skin and I nearly laugh.  

Am I okay?  

"I'm fine, Tommy," I reply, finding his mouth again.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks, still pressing against me like he's terrified I'll come to my senses and back away.

"If that's what you need, Tommy," I tell him, pressing a kiss against him painfully, cutting my lip in the process.  I need this to be a battle, a violent frenzy if that's what it escalates into.  If it's nice he'll want to do it again and I'm not sure I'll be able to refuse.

            "Hmmm," he murmurs against my mouth and I lean over him, pressing him down into the bed.

            "If that's what you need," I repeat softly, scraping my teeth over his lips.

End


End file.
